


Links

by iniquiticity



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Biting, Body Worship, Canon Era, Established Relationship, Going Away Sex, Historically Accurate (With Porn), M/M, Multi-Faceted Humans, Older Man/Younger Man, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Tender Lovemaking (sort of), Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:05:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6747718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is only a man, shackled to the future, and for this moment he allows himself to be selfish; he takes this little last bit of Hamilton for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Links

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts), [anna_unfolding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_unfolding/gifts).



> I wrote half of this story a long time ago, for the incredible Liz, for her epic. Then I wrote [something else](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6022732) for her instead. Recently, circumstances came about where the incredible Ms. Unfolding required some porn, so I revived this and finished it up. Hope you both enjoy. 
> 
> This takes place in July 1781. I have made a fairly decent attempt to make this story historically accurate. You can read all about the [Yorktown campaign](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yorktown_campaign) and the [southern theater of the American Revolution](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southern_theater_of_the_American_Revolutionary_War) on Wikipedia. It is astonishing how badly the British hecked it up. 
> 
> As always, I can be found on twitter at [@picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake), and [iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com) on tumblr.

There are two things that are different now, and they switch in importance depending on an indeterminable number of factors. 

The first is that Hamilton has resigned his post as Chief of Staff. In practice, this means nothing, because the man has agreed to keep working until a suitable replacement has been found, and that will take some time. But anyone who knows them will sense the difference immediately. Something has changed. Hamilton, despite his new independence, seems peculiar without his position on the edge of Washington’s spotlight. Washington seems - well, perhaps not _smaller_ , but _different_ , now that his aide is only _until_. 

The second thing is that Washington is haunted by a growing sense of terrible _ending_. The general has sat in silence for hours in the midst of their chaotic shift to Virginia to try and identify if this ending is a good sort or a bad sort, but he has come up empty. Have they already cut his gallows? Is there some thirty-gun salute waiting? 

He doesn’t know, and it’s worse because the ending is suffocating, creeping down his throat, sliding under his fingernails. 

He does not have time for these things, but they loom, surging in his consciousness like a river overflowing its banks. He has to dig mental dams and levees to avoid his thoughts from flooding. It is worse, too, because the man who he could unload his cares to - the Marquis de Lafayette - is far ahead of him. 

He takes a breath of the tepid July air and feels the sweat beat at his collar. Even accustomed to the muggy, wet summers, it is not comfortable. He hopes, though, the British troops are suffering worse under the mosquitos and the heat. 

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and stares at the table in the candlelight darkness of the war room. The rest of the generals have emptied out, and it’s just him now. Him and the tendrils of providence at his throat and their little map of the upcoming days. Yorktown. The surrounding areas. The French fleet. The British troops, as best they know. He gazes at the carved pieces without really seeing them. 

Hamilton appears in the doorway, silhouetted by the candles in the room. He feels different. 

“You wanted to see me, sir,” Hamilton says. His voice is different. He is no longer Washington’s chief staff aide, in some spiritual sense. He is a soldier. 

“How is the search coming?” Washington asks. 

Hamilton snorts. Washington keeps his eyes on the pieces. The truth is, the general has no confidence they will find an adequate replacement, at least in the next year. He suspects, per the way the future seems to want to stuff itself down his throat, that the war will be over before he has a new proper chief staff aide. That’s not just because of the man’s incredible skill, and that he never stops working, or his elegant prose, or his genius intellect, or his eye for strategy, but for other ways Hamilton assists his general. 

He has never asked, but he suspects the Hamilton knows just as well. 

“Poor, sir,” Hamilton answers, “Who is teaching men to write? They have no understanding of the correct way to impress upon a Congressman our continually disastrous state of affairs.” The man no longer meets his eyes. This is new, since his resignation. Washington thinks the sigh even if he doesn’t express it; he relished the sort of chase, rather liked withholding his gaze from Hamilton until it had been properly sought out. He misses it in an aching way that reminds him of Mount Vernon. 

“Come here,” Washington says. His voice is wearier than he intends. How can a man not be tired, kept so long from his home, and spurned by the man he desires because of some pointless outburst he has already apologized for? 

Hamilton studies him warily. His soldier has been less giving with his affections, although the general suspects this is because of pride, not a lack of desire. 

“I have something for you,” Washington says, and he slowly picks up one of the infantry pieces from the board and holds it out. He looks first at the piece in his hand, then the man in his tent. Hamilton stares at the piece, first in confusion, but Washington can see the comprehension slowly come into his expression.

Hamilton moves to take the piece. He makes what Washington knows to be deliberate contact with him - warm, calloused fingers brushing against his skin - and he slowly slides the crudely carved man from his general’s fingers. 

“Sir,” Hamilton says, drawing his fingers over the little statue. Finally, he makes eye contact. 

Washington is going to very dearly miss those eyes. 

He has played this scene over in his head for more than hour now, starting at the time when Knox and Rochambeau got into an argument about artillery and he had tuned them both out.

Sometimes he imagines the scene where Hamilton is angry that he has finally gotten what he always wanted so soon after demanding it. His aide ( _ex-aide_ ) has never liked to get anything easy. He likes to work for his accomplishments, for his pleasure, for his friends. In this scene, he takes Hamilton and teaches him to be properly grateful for this thing Washington has never wanted to give him, but always knew that he would have to sooner or later. It is not unfamiliar; they are well accustomed to Washington teaching Hamilton to be grateful. But now, it seems off in some new way. He is a new Washington, more and more familiar with the destiny that suffocates him and the strings of providence that seem to pull him hopelessly along. And Hamilton is a new Hamilton - infantry officer and commander of men, not his aide. His fear is of bullets and bayonets, not bad news. 

There is the scene where Hamilton learns of his new commission and abandons him to tell his friends. The Hamilton in this scene no longer desires him, or perhaps never desired him at all, and acquiesced to their many couplings only out of convenience and the urge to be useful. The Hamilton in this one is a cold, cruel soldier with the death gleam a man gets in his eyes when he knows he can do nothing but fight. Washington can imagine how his legacy-obsessed ex-aide could become this creature, but the prayer in his heart begs for it not to happen. 

There is the scene where Hamilton is quietly grateful in his reserved way, in that he says nothing, but he puffs out his chest like the moment they met and Washington knew, immediately, that this boy had all the markings of a remarkable future. In this scene, Hamilton puts the piece back on the board and looks at him with those eyes, and he touches his sabre, and stands straight, queerly silent without body forward, asking without asking. In this scene, he wants Hamilton tenderly, but no infantry commander would allow it. Hamilton has always had a way of making people give him things that he wants by making it seem so completely sensible that he is to have it. Hamilton makes his commander have him with ferocity, because it is so sensible and obvious he should be had with ferocity. 

He realizes, too late, that these are scenes of an aide. 

His new infantry commander looks at the piece. Sometime has painted it haphazardly blue. Then, with some deliberation, Hamilton extends his hand, the piece hovering over the board. 

“Guide my hand, sir,” he says, softly. 

“Here,” Washington answers, and he wraps his fingers around Hamilton’s delicate wrist, and pulls the man’s hand and the piece across the map. His flesh is warm. “You will be assigned under General Lafayette. We intend to siege Yorktown with De Grasse’s fleet, what seems to be some extremely disjointed British communication, and some too-small number of Cornwallis’ troops. We’ll need several key British positions broken to create an effective siege. That’s to be your task.” 

Hamilton puts the piece down on the map where he is assigned. He twists his wrist and breaks Washington’s grasp without too much of an effort. His general lets him go. In the candlelight, Hamilton’s young face looks old and haggard, hunger and war ravaging him. 

Washington realizes he has become very attached to that face. 

“When I am to join General Lafayette?” 

“As soon as possible, I think. It shouldn’t take you more than a week. We’ll assign you some men, drill them into a company, and then ship you all out. I think you’ll have some say in the group, but some of Rochambeau’s troops will be going, and Sullivan will want to make selections.” 

Hamilton is still looking at the table. Washington sees the tendrils of fate curling off him like steam on soup. 

“This is the end, isn’t it, sir?” Hamilton asks, still not looking at him, “I may be mad, but I can feel it, sometimes, when I am alone in my tent. I feel like some sense is choking me. Like I will wake up a free man or not at all.” 

_Of course,_ Washington thinks, of a sudden. “Son--” 

“I’m not your son,” Hamilton retorts, though the words possess none of the bite his aide usually contains. An infantry commander would not have to worry about nepotism. 

“The end haunts you,” Washington says, brushing off the comment. Hamilton looks up at him, the realization bright in his eyes. “The weight of it is a stone on your back. The fingers of it choke you. It’s mud sucks down your boots, and water that soaks into your socks, and the flies on your neck.” 

Hamilton stares at him. He wonders what those eyes have seen. He wonders if providence felt the same to his man, like a choking ring of iron around his neck. 

“I see it between us, sir,” he says, finally, with a hint of frustration. A flicker of the aide blinks in those eyes. “We are bound together. We have always been.” 

“Despite your greatest attempts.” 

Hamilton scowls. Washington does not allow himself to smile. 

“The end...” Hamilton begins, peculiarly and unfamiliarly hesitant, the anger melting away from his features. “Do you think it’s victory? Do you think we will die and become martyrs? Do you think that we will be shamed until history forgets us? If our end is one and the same, are we to emerge?” 

“I do not know.” He usually is not permitted to not know things. The confession is surprisingly refreshing. He draws his fingers down the bridge of his nose, thinking. Praying. “I can only hope we are being dragged towards victory and not defeat.” 

He rises slowly to his feet, feeling the war in his bones. It aches in his hips and knees. It runs through his veins along with his blood. It pushes everything else out of him, except for the young lieutenant colonel who stands warily in front of him. This man beats in his heart, as everpresent as the war itself. 

Deliberately, he slides himself between the table and Hamilton, until the man has no choice but to look up at him. He sees the chains tight around his wrists, the links dragging off into some unknown point. He wonders how infantry commanders might feel about such a thing. He knows his aide will chafe incredibly against such demanding bonds. 

Hamilton takes a step back, creating a space between them. He tightens his jaw and offers a salute. “I’ll honor you and the cause, sir, no matter if I expire doing so,” he says. “Is that all?” 

Those eyes are hard. Washington feels the sigh settle at the base of his throat, but he suppresses it. Those are not the eyes he is going to miss. He looks for his aide in them.

“Will you come to my headquarters, this evening? And then, you may be with your men?” 

All of a sudden Hamilton shifts; there’s his aide again, all confidence and rebellion, and Washington’s feelings swell in a way he took a long time to recognize. He knows it now.

“Do I have something you want?” Hamilton teases, easy and confident and familiar, and for a moment Washington forgets that he’s given this man over to the war, like he’s given everything else that he had. 

“No,” Washington says, “I have a gift for you.” 

Hamilton’s eyebrows go up, but he nods. “Certainly, sir,” he says, and bows, and Washington watches his coat-tails. Washington picks up the little infantryman from the table and draws it through his fingers for a long time in the darkness. 

** 

He has plenty to do in his private quarters, letters to write, other correspondence to review. He tries not to think about his shackles, and the chains that he can feel in every direction, linking him to soldiers and death. He tries not to think about the sand in the back of his throat that feels like the future. He takes off his jacket and his sash and his waistcoat and his neckcloth, and feels naked. He doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he might.

There’s a knock at his door. “Your Excellency,” Hamilton says. 

“Come in, and close the door behind you,” he says. 

Hamilton does so, and stands at attention in the middle of his bedroom. His eyes are the only part of him moving - vibrant and alive, and entertained at the state of his commander’s undress. Washington is far too invested in those eyes, and by God, he is going to miss them. He knows he is going to lay awake wondering how Hamilton is doing. He is already dreaming of their reunion. 

“At ease,” he says, and Hamilton folds his hands behind his back and looks at him, waiting for something. 

Instead of revealing a gift, Washington unbuttons his undershirt and lets it hang across the back of his chair; he kicks off his mud-caked boots, and his socks, and his stockings, until he’s bare besides his breeches and the forever-weight of the war. Then, in a deliberate manner, he crosses the small bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed, which is larger than the beds they’re usually accustomed to. He puts his hands on his thighs and looks meaningfully at Hamilton - a look that his aide knows. 

Hamilton hangs his jacket on the back of Washington’s chair, and unfurls his neckcloth, and drops his waistcoat on the floor. Washington watches him, and remembers their early days of this, the speed and ferocity and desire. The war had seemed so endless then, impossible and eternal and all-consuming, as if they had to engage in the quickest lovemaking possible lest they be interrupted. 

Hamilton stands in front of him. With Washington sitting, Hamilton’s taller than him, which is the intended effect. Even dressed down, his aide maintains his posture, and by now Washington knows that that confidence-almost-arrogance is one of the man’s most appealing traits. Where he knows he can never be too much, or too loud, or too furious - Hamilton is there, like a representation of all the things the war prohibits him from. 

“Are you playing a shell game with me, Your Excellency?” 

“I would never,” Washington says, just on the edge of offended. 

Hamilton draws his fingers across the worn flesh of Washington’s shoulder. His aide’s skin, as it always seems to be, is fever-hot, and leaves a trail of gooseflesh. It makes him forget, if only temporarily, the footsteps he is forced to step into. 

“Is this my gift, sir?” Hamilton asks, and his voice is teasing like a lover’s, and his other hand has come up and is touching his other shoulder. Hamilton takes his face in his hands, tilts him up to look at those eyes. He relishes every moment that Hamilton has him look at his face.

“It is, Colonel,” he says, his voice dropped to a whisper. Hamilton smirks at him and Washington feels his desire surge, hot in the core of his being. “I hope it satisfies you.” 

The look Hamilton gives him is brimming in lust in a way that banishes all thoughts of the war, that melts the iron from his bonds, that makes him feel almost unbearably young. Hamilton looks at him in a way that he does not deserve. Hamilton looks at him in a way that he has never been looked at. And now he is sending Hamilton away to war, to be hardened further to face death and misery, and not -- 

“Your Excellency,” Hamilton says sharply, and in one movement he has a lapful of his aide - _his aide_ , yes, with the right look to him, and the right wandering hands, and the right demanding voice. Hamilton’s knees are bent on either side of his legs, and Hamilton pushes him roughly down into the bedsheets. He ungracefully pulls himself further onto the bed, until his head is just avoiding bumping into the back wall; Hamilton looms over him on his hands and knees, still mostly dressed, though there is the beginnings of evident desire in his breeches. How many times have they been here, reversed? Washington knows how Hamilton must feel, the links between them shortened. 

“You shall concentrate on only me, sir. You shall not think of the war, or anything else. It is my sincere wish that I shall consume every one of your thoughts, of which I know are extraordinarily numerous.” Hamilton continues, and Washington closes his eyes and opens them again. He looks up at the man he shall pretend is still his aide, because that is the easiest way to focus on him alone. “And I shall be most offended if I suspect any thoughts of shackles or chains. Am I understood?” 

“Yes, sir,” Washington says, his voice low, because Hamilton’s tone finds some notch in his spine and digs into it, and sets him alight in a way that only their trysts do. He thinks he might have gone mad years ago if not for Hamilton’s bedside manner, if not for his hands and his mouth and the lean curve of his body, the latter of which Hamilton is now exposing by dropping his undershirt off the side of his bed. 

“Sit up,” Hamilton says, and Washington lets himself fall into the command, obeys without thinking, as any good soldier does. Hamilton sits more firmly in his lap, presses their bodies together and buries his face high in Washington’s neck. His inhale is loud, like Washington is some fine tobacco or wine for him to absorb. It’s a pleasant thought. 

“You know, of course,” he says, interspersing his conversational tone with sharp bites that twist hot in Washington’s stomach, “That nothing awaits us but victory.” And here he grinds their hips together, and Washington moans, and then Hamilton’s mouth is a hot, slick drag against his neck. Hamilton lets his mouth slide upwards, until he’s breathing into Washington’s ear, and it’s -- the way it feels is monumental. 

“We are going to go to Virginia, and we are going to win,” Hamilton says, like a promise, and the words touch his ear with Hamilton’s token ferocity despite their whisper-soft quality, and they slide through his skull and then lay themselves like building foundations in his heart. They are going to win. They are going to go Virginia (his Virginia, his sweet Virginia, his home) - Lafayette first, already there, and now Hamilton, and then him - and this is going to work. He swallows, and promises himself. _They will make this work._

He thinks about -- 

Hamilton bites his ear, hard enough that he hisses. “No shackles,” he murmurs, harsh, and he grinds their bodies together, as if in punishment. 

“Apologies,” Washington says, and Hamilton huffs against him. Their closeness should be uncomfortable in July, but Hamilton makes their desire seem natural in any environment. They have had this in the freezing winter and the boiling summer, in the buzz of pre-battle and the misery of post-defeat. 

Washington knows they both play confidence to mask terror, and he wonders if Hamilton thinks that if he pretends with enough intensity, he can make it true. Washington, of course, knows better. 

Hamilton pulls his face out of Washington’s neck and looks at him. His emotions are written across every line of his face, upon his wet lips, in his gaze. Washington reaches up, tucks a hair behind his aide’s ear, and says nothing, because he does not know how to say what he wants. He wants to say that this war would have been long lost without him, that if only to know there is his presence has forever been enough. He must fight another day for it. 

Hamilton presses his lips together, and then he throws himself at Washington’s body as if they are not already unbearably close. He kisses Washington so hard that the general’s head knocks against the wall, only neither of them notice. Hamilton’s tongue is as boisterous as the rest of him, pushing inside his mouth, forgetting propriety. Hamilton’s kisses are as intense as his writing, as much as his opinions, as much as his actions in battle. Washington lets it crash over him like a waterfall, as if Hamilton can wash away everything monstrous about their circumstances. Hamilton kisses him until he has to pull back to pant for breath, and then he dives in again with his token recklessness, only this time that mouth beats a trail down his neck, leaving splotches of red amidst the July sweat, and bruises on his shoulders, and bites on his chest. Hamilton contorts himself to take, twists his back to consume. Hamilton must have every bit of him, it seems. 

He will give himself all over, if there is anything left to give, after the war has gorged itself. 

“Excellency,” Hamilton breathes against his flesh, his tongue teasing a nipple, “I shall have you inside me tonight, I think. I shall want to remember, when we are no longer so close.” 

Washington nods, staring up at the ceiling. He feels Hamilton’s hand at the crotch of his breeches, groans as the man squeezes him, just on the edge on rough. Hamilton strokes the raised bulge, where his pleasure is evident, and Washington lets the heat surge through him, lets Hamilton touch him in his way. He pushes his hips up into Hamilton’s hand, and Hamilton nods out of the corner of his eye. There’s something brutish and uncivilized about it, rutting against the calloused palm of his aide, the whole thing boiling hot. Sensations that his body thought it had forgotten are brought back to life like old water-wheels. Rust comes off his hips like decrepit gears. His aide can jump-start him like none other. 

“You would prefer that to the alternative?” he asks, barely managing the words, because Hamilton’s mouth is worrying his nipple, and each touch of his tongue feels like a blacksmith’s hammer, and rattles in his soul like one. 

“That I would -- inside you?” Hamilton starts, and bites him suddenly, and Washington sinks his teeth into the flesh of his bicep to resist the shout. His aide seems to consider the thought for a while, stopping his tortures, but then the man shakes his head and moves to the other nipple. “No, I shall not remember that like I remember this. When we return to one another, perhaps I shall have you. When you are negotiating the surrender of that rat Cornwallis. That night, perhaps.” 

Washington can imagine it so clearly, he wonders if Hamilton has somehow implanted the image into his head. He moans into his elbow, and then nods. “As you wish, now, and also then.” 

“I shall consider your oath sworn, then,” Hamilton murmurs, and with a final bite he crawls off Washington’s lap and with some effort kicks off his breeches, and lays himself out on the bed bare with his legs spread. Washington stares because there is nothing more beautiful, because Hamilton is an oasis in their terrible desert, the most marvelous painting in the gallery, the most beautiful -- anything. Washington thinks that he could sustain himself entirely from the sight of Hamilton naked on his bed. 

His aide - yes, still his aide, and no sight of the stranger hiding within him - lifts himself up on his elbows. Washington reluctantly pulls his gaze away, to find the jar of the ointment that they use for this particular purpose. “You shall go slow, and ignore my demands, and make the most affectionate love to me that you can manage.” 

“You do not usually wish to be attended to so tenderly,” Washington says. Like in all things, Hamilton is an impatient lover, demanding results and success with the most speed he can manage. He collects a fair bit of the stuff on his fingers, and it shines in the low candlelight. 

Hamilton shrugs. “I am a man of many appetites; I like venison, and beef, and mutton, and pork.” 

He says it so confidently and so casually that Washington almost misses an edge of something. Something that reminds him of the schoolboy that ended up at his side a long time ago. Something that reminds him in so many ways of their nascent country. Something that he so desperately, completely wants to keep at his side, to foster and grow like a hothouse sapling. 

An even smaller thing, that would not mind being kept. Washington has become very good at hearing the very small things in Hamilton’s voice, and this thing screams in a tiny voice to keep him, to protect him.

Instead, he is shipping him off Virginia, in the presence of only other troops, and without him there to make sure that he is comforted, and safe, and sleeping when he ought. 

“Excellency,” Hamilton says, sharply, chastising. Washington snaps from his thoughts. Blinks away their collective bindings, and settles himself comfortably between his aide’s legs, as thin and beautiful and lean as they are. 

“My sincerest apologies,” he says, and he draws slick fingers across his aide’s thighs, raising gooseflesh. Hamilton grunts at him, which he decides means his apology is accepted, and then the man lays flat on his back and sighs a rattling sigh of pleasure as Washington touches him, as affectionately as he would like. It’s a strange blessing to be allowed to show the overwhelming tenderness that he feels for this incredible creature in his bed. And now he must touch to remember, to recall the soft give of the man’s flesh while they march, when they set camp in the rain, when Hamilton is far ahead of him. He has to remember this wonderful creature, this perfect statue, this magnificent example when they are trapped in the boiling, insect-infected misery of August.

He seals the memories within him: narrow hips, strong thighs, slender calves, lean stomach. He will carry this with him, next to the war. It will beat in his heart like victory, like trumpet-song. He will always remember, and forever recall, Hamilton’s soft moans and tender begs, the curling and twitching of his toes, the pressure of his fingers in the bedsheets. There is much for him to memorize, and Hamilton has demanded he be slow; as in all things, they are lined up almost too well for it to be chance. By the time he has touched Hamilton as much as he’s liked, the man is whimpering and squirming beneath him, aching and asking for him. He finally presses a tender finger against him, and then inside, and Hamilton covers his face with his hands and utters a desperate moan. He pushes his body against Washington’s intrusion, as he is wont to do; Washington holds him down with his other hand. 

As he was instructed, he sets a slow, gentle pace for their lovemaking, or at least this preclude. It is the perfect opportunity to memorize how the inside of Hamilton feels against him: soft and warm and welcome, pulsing and hot. Exquisite in ways that should not permitted to be experienced by mortals like him. 

A second finger, and Hamilton whines high in his throat. Begs softly, as he does when he forgets himself. Digs his fingers into the sheets and tries to writhe, only to be held. Washington has thought on it for a long time before coming to a conclusion: there is no part of Hamilton that he likes, or loves, less or more than any other part. He is no more or less infatuated with Hamilton going off on one of his rages about Congress than he is with his soft begs for more pleasure. He does not care one ounce more or less for Hamilton furiously writing than he does Hamilton furiously speaking. Hamilton wielding some improvised weapon of pleasure is no more or less beautiful than Hamilton’s ferocity with his sabre, even if he fears for the latter and not for the former. Battle does not arouse him, no, but it is a different kind of satisfaction, and at his age he’s learned that arousal is just one of the many ways to feel connected to another human.

Oh, is he connected to this man. In a thousand ways, mental and physical, spiritual and emotional, in his heart and and in his mind, in the past and in the unknown future. Not only in their shared pleasure, like this, in the half-lit darkness of the night and the silence of their own sins, but in the fury of battle and the terrible suffocation of bureaucracy. And even when he has sent the man away, they will be linked. 

“ _Excellency_ ,” rasps Hamilton, and presses the heel of his foot against Washington’s shoulder, a pretense of a rebuke. They are so intricately linked that Hamilton knows, without trying, when he is pondering that they are intricately linked. 

“Apologies,” he says, and as part of the apology slides a third finger inside him. Hamilton lifts his upper half up on his elbows to watch. He moans with pleasure, and Washington is struck. He’s beautiful, slick with sweat from July or their actions, eyes glazed and mouth slick, hanging open. He takes a breath and collects himself, even when Washington twists his fingers. 

“You are---” Hamilton’s panting, and he chews his lip to maintain some shred of his composure. “--quite terrible at maintaining your discipline. I ask you for little, sir, only that you focus on me, and only me, and still your thoughts wander.” 

It is the least threatening reprimand he thinks he has ever gotten, and his chest aches with how wonderful it is. He presses in deeper and Hamilton bites harder on his lip, trying to look threatening and failing. 

“You cannot even apologize?” Hamilton says breathlessly, the last word forced out on a gasp as Washington slides his fingers in, and out, and in, and out. Hamilton sucks in a rattling breath as he tries to find his words. “I would expect -- for your behavior -- you would -- “ 

He brushes deep against Hamilton, and the man falls back against the bed, eyes squeezed shut, thighs flexing. Hamilton makes the most wonderful noises in lieu of words.

“Monster,” Hamilton says, and Washington chuckles, because Hamilton takes terrible things and makes them beautiful. 

“Another? Or?” 

Hamilton shifts against him, trying to find his pleasure again. He allows it this time, and without difficulty Hamilton pushes his body against his fingers, gasping and groaning. He throws an arm over his face and shakes his head, as if it answers the questions. 

“Sir,” Washington says, and presses unflinchingly inside him, and Hamilton shoves his arm into his mouth to suppress the wail. 

“Or - please,” Hamilton gasps out, “Yourself. I need it.” 

“How would you like it?” 

He forces Hamilton to think under pressure, like he does in his office, like he does on the battlefield. Aides and infantry commanders must always have an answer, no matter the circumstances. 

“Sit, sir, I would like it--” A moan, as Washington wrings every drop of sensation out of him. “--Sit, and I shall be upon you.” 

Washington pulls his fingers away and resettles himself against the wall. He finds it’s impossible to tear his gaze from Hamilton, with his gleam of sweat and his wild eyes and his unqueued hair. A half-smile forces itself upon his lips, that this man is so beautiful, and permits himself to be used in this way, that this is his man, even if he is less his than he ever was. 

That he is sending this work of art away, and only to meet with him so much later, after blood and combat. 

Hamilton bites his thigh, and even despite how tender it is, Washington’s thoughts scatter from it. 

“If we had more days, I would punish you for being so undisciplined,” Hamilton says, looking up at him. Washington shakes his head, because what else is there to say, when you are the general, and your ex-chief staff aide threatens you as if your life is not so important, in the worst and best way? 

Hamilton crawls into his lap, works his breeches off. Draws his hand down Washington’s member, making the man gasp. He reaches, casual, to the ointment jar, and slicks him up as efficiently as he can manage. Then, driven by his pleasure, by his overwhelming drive, by his everburning ambition, Hamilton settles himself above Washington and sits himself down, so slow. 

His expressions flow openly, unlike his usual self. He does not take all of it at once, but adjusts slowly, inch by inch, and each time the same story is told: the stretch, the intensity, the desire, the hunger, the want. Washington puts trembling hands on those narrow hips, thumbs the thin hipbones, feels the muscle lain over them. Washington keeps still despite how raw he feels and the urge to thrust. Usually they are reversed, and he can push in at whatever pace he wants. Usually, in their hurry, Washington does not resist the beast inside him that demands him to take, to _fuck_. 

This is different. He effects calm, even as his breath shudders and Hamilton takes him in, the aide’s face revealing his naked pleasure. He needs to savor this time, this man, _his_ man. He will let this man go, even before he sends him to Virginia. He just needs to remember.

“God,” Hamilton murmurs, his fingers drawing nonsense patterns against Washington’s chest, pushing against the reddened marks just recently left. Washington lets his head rest against the wall and closes his eyes, despite the beauty of the display. It seems an eternity before Hamilton’s properly seated, before Washington is so deep inside this wonderful creature that he wonders how there is an existence outside of being surrounded like this.

“Excellency, I---” 

Washington forces his eyes open, forces himself to look. Licks his lips, because maybe that will convince words to make themselves known. But he knows just as well that there are no words for this, their joining, Hamilton’s body, the way they come together. 

“Yes?” he breathes, and Hamilton throws his mouth at Washington, almost too much for a kiss, and Washington’s head knocks up against the wall again as Hamilton claims him, pushing his hips back down on Washington’s lap, groaning and biting, his characteristic whirlwind. Hamilton’s hands are all over him, scraping at his flesh, leaving red trails; his mouth is aggressive and overeager, against Washington’s mouth, against his neck, against his chin, against his ear. And his body, hot and tight and clenched around him, the unbearable shift between them, the everpresent pleasure and pressure, twisting and curling together. 

They have always been twisted and curled together, and this is just a confirmation of that. Washington knows it, in the same place where Hamilton tightens some spring inside him, winding him like indelicate clockwork. Hamilton uses his body so magnificently and recklessly that despite their positions, he does not feel in control, and by God, it is marvelous and wonderful. Even if for a single moment, it is a terrible, awesome relief to give his burdens up, to no longer feel the unbearable weight of responsibility. 

Hamilton puts his hands on Washington’s shoulders to give himself some leverage, and he does truly fuck himself against Washington’s body, punishing himself with deep, sharp thrusts, a terrible pace that must burn in his thighs and sear in the core of his being. Hamilton buries his face in Washington’s ear, gasps hot and terrible against him as he debases himself upon his commander like an altar. 

“Ham, _please_ ,” Washington moans, like a prayer, his voice desperate as he digs into Hamilton's hips harder. He knows, distantly, that there will be bruises in the shapes of his fingers and red crescents where his nails were. He knows and rejoices because Hamilton needs to remember, and he needs to make sure the infantry commander never forgets his aide, never forgets his commander, never forgets how they are linked in so many ways. 

“What?” Hamilton asks like a command, like he is the general and Washington a mere aide, soon to leave, recently promoted. 

“Never stop,” Washington pleads, without thinking. Never stop using him like this, getting closer than any man is permitted to be. 

“Never,” Hamilton affirms, and he wears a wild, lust-crazed smile, too wonderful for words. “I need you, sir. Do not so soon spend.” 

Washington laughs a breathless laugh, trailing into a moan, as Hamilton presses them together. Hamilton shifts himself in the most marvelous of ways, and wrings every drop of his being from him. Maybe there will be nothing left, when Hamilton leaves. Hamilton will take all but his flesh. 

Washington drifts in and out of this heat-haze, feeling only their bodies, slick with sweat. He casts his mind to a place where he can resist the driving urge to push back, to take, to need. He can be here for Hamilton to use. He can give himself over. He is no longer sure how long Hamilton takes him, sometimes intense and bestial, and other times gentle, kissing him and saying nothing. Hamilton knows how not to end him just as much as the opposite, and he is flawless in his execution of the knowledge. 

Then he can tell, in the way that a man knows another man who is a piece of his soul, that Hamilton's gathering of energy, this time, is his end. Washington finds whatever sensibility he has left and looks at him, and Hamilton knows that he knows. 

“Sir,” Hamilton says, and pulls Washington's mouth to his. He summons whatever part of him remains and builds pace, builds energy, builds lust, builds _them_. 

“Oh, Hamilton,” Washington says, helplessly, when his mouth has been freed. Hamilton is truly taking him, his hips and thighs flexing, surrounding them with the sound of skin on skin. Hamilton seeks to consume him, and he knows without question how quickly he would step into that flame. 

“Excellency---” Hamilton reaches for his hand, but Washington understands. Hamilton's length is hot and hard to the touch, and his aide wails into his neck. Washington strokes him rough, as he's always liked. Hamilton throws his arms around his general, bites him with desperate need. Washington is all urges now, and he doesn't resist when his body wraps around his aide’s, his powerful legs surrounding that narrow waist. He encircles Hamilton as if he can protect him, as if he does not have to send him away, as if he can keep the war at a distance, as if they never have to be parted. 

Instead, Washington pushes every inch of their bodies together, as if to imprint one form on another, as if his flesh will never forget. He can only surround him here, so near and so wonderful, their bodies one tangled silhouette, so close that no chains are necessary. Between the moans and grunts into his skin he hears words. 

“We shall reunite in Virginia --- it will not be so long --” Hamilton says, his voice fractured and desperate, strung out with pleasure. “--I shall have you at the British surrender. I shall see you so soon. You are coming to Virginia, to meet me.” 

Washington twists his wrist and Hamilton chokes and spills hot between them, his body shuddering in the throes of his orgasm. Only then does Washington push into him, knows the right way to get his body where it needs to be. He lifts his clean hand to Hamilton's hair, burying his face in it. 

“Please, sir, please, I want to carry you with every step, I ---” and Washington whites out with pleasure to that high, begging whine, spilling inside his man. He offers a few more uneven thrusts, gasping with the sensation of it, all unbearable heat. He pants. Hamilton breathes against his neck, loose-limbed and uncharacteristically soft. Washington relishes the moment: the great general himself, relaxed and thinking of nothing, the tension gone from his muscles - and his energetic, aggressive aide, quiet as a churchmouse. 

There is so little left of that aide, he thinks. He has given so much away to the war. He is only a man, and for this moment he allows himself to be selfish; he takes this little last bit of Hamilton for himself. He takes this soft, delicate thing, this beautiful man in this moment. So very his, in the way nothing in the way is his. Wrapped up in his arms and legs, slick with his sweat, filled with his seed, with his spent length. 

He sighs into Hamilton’s hair, wishing there could be nothing but this. Hamilton kisses Washington’s neck, over marks shaped like his teeth. 

Washington shifts, and slips out. Hamilton winces at it, but he makes no move to pull away. Hamilton doesn’t untangle himself from the prison of powerful limbs, or try to shake Washington off, or laugh like they are so close, and bound in so many ways, and tangled in flesh and fate. 

“Sir,” Hamilton says, in a soft voice, into his skin. “I will think of you every evening, and dream of our next event.” 

Washington shivers despite himself, and turns his head. Hamilton lets him have a kiss, tender and chaste. 

“I am sure that you will,” Washington says, a smile in his voice. 

They should separate, only Washington is finding no will to unlock himself from Hamilton’s body. If he frees his aide, an infantry commander will leave for Virginia, and his bed will be very cold, and very alone. Hamilton does not seem to mind their closeness, his containment. Hamilton wraps his narrow arms around Washington’s chest, and throws his weight to the side. The result is that the ball of their bodies is on it’s side now. 

Hamilton grabs Washington’s sheet, and pulls it over them. Washington should argue, but the word never appear. He has given himself over, after all; he cannot deny what his man clearly desires. Hamilton’s breath is warm against his flesh, blending in with the humid July. Washington listens to it, and feels it, and then feels the warm, unfamiliar bliss of easy sleep.

**

He wakes with a start. Men could -- 

He is alone. 

He is alone, and quite sore, especially in his hips and his groin. 

He is alone, and quite sore, and also covered in Hamilton’s possessive bites. 

It is not, he decides, all that bad. He brushes a finger over one, and there’s a shock of heat that startles him. He wonders if he will have time for such investigations, in between being a general in the middle of planning the campaign that will end his war. 

He takes a breath, breathes Hamilton in and out. Tucks the bit of his aide that he has kept for himself close to his heart. He stands and dresses, and looks at himself in the mirror. The shackles are there, clear as day, heavy iron links into the future. He is pulled, so he goes. 

Outside, the camp is alive. He follows Hamilton’s voice to where the man is yelling at some soldiers, managing them into rough ranks, glaring at their ragged equipment. 

The infantry commander looks at him, hard and alien. Washington clenches his hands behind his back, feels his bruises and marks, the last vestiges of the man that he has always loved so much. Despite the stranger that snaps to salute him, the manacles are still there, holding them together. Curling around his wrists, twisting like a cat through Hamilton’s ankles, dissolving into mist. 

“General Washington,” says Hamilton, in a voice that commands men, “We shall be read to depart by your leave.” 

“Very good, Colonel,” he says. He studies Hamilton’s men with a flick of a glance before turning back. “I shall see you in Virginia, and with a little luck, there shall be a lot to celebrate.” 

“Luck is not required, Your Excellency,” Hamilton says, and his gaze tracks to Washington’s wrists, to the tendrils of the future around his throat. “I am already very aware that the future holds for us victory.” 

“Indeed, sir,” Washington says, and all of a sudden he has never been so satisfied with his chains.


End file.
